The Full Moon That Danced with Plot
by ExtraSyrupPlease
Summary: Aniridia Flowerbeam is the prettiest girl at Forks High School, but under her enchanting exterior she is both more and less than she seems. (Read: she out-Sues, out-jerks, and out-whines all the other characters. Or tries to.)
1. Chapter 1

Please note that this is intentionally bad and so any flaws in it are deliberate. Also note that, while I do dislike Twilight, I don't endorse Annie's actions.

* * *

Aniridia Flowerbeam, who shall henceforth be referred to as "Annie", looked into the mirror and sighed. Looking back was a girl of about seventeen with pellucid ivory skin, a heart-shaped face, lustrous hair that had intermingled chocolate, copper and violet and fell to her waist in soft waves like silk spun from sunset, and eyes of two different colors, one azure blue and the other leaf green. She was too beautiful for her own good. Once again she would have to face her classmates' jealousy and lust, which she knew was there even if they never said it.

After she was done in the bathroom, where she hadn't put on any makeup because her skin was perfect, down to the pale lavender eyelids that were clearly visible, she hid her perfect hourglass figure and overly large breasts underneath a horrible brown sweater that was ten thousand times uglier than she was. She sighed again, daydreaming of a gleaming amethyst bikini that would do her justice. Yet even the ugliest of clothes did nothing to diminish her beauty, and it just made people use their imagination, and, oh, how she hated listening to that.

She strode gracefully toward the door of her bedroom, but when she reached the threshold she tripped over thick air. She nimbly picked herself up with her small, long-fingered hands and noted that she had failed to accumulate any of the thick dust coating the floor. Downstairs she could "hear" her brother Marty playing violent video games, and she contemplated hiding his equipment again to make him stop. It would be for a good cause, of course — she didn't like to be subjected to such noise, and besides, everyone knew video games were evil.

Marty had a face like a dog that had been hit with an ugly stick, and his hair was like moldy corn silk. He committed various thoughtcrimes on a daily basis. Annie longed to punish him appropriately, but she knew that if she revealed the terrible truth about herself she'd be taken away by the Ersatz Corps and enrolled in the Boarding School of Crazy, where she'd probably get thrown out a window by Susan Ivanova.

She knew the voices were real. She was really intuitive that way. She also knew that her unique hair had some significance, and perhaps they were connected. She liked to think of it as her "other hearing": telepathy was too common, too vulgar a word for such a special gift; it made it sound like a disease or something. At times she dimly recalled something about being touched by Nylons.

She skipped gracefully down the stairs, making sure not to get any filth on her pristine white socks. When she arrived downstairs, her parents denied her breakfast because she hadn't come down by 7 am. A single tear ran down her face like liquid crystal as she listened to the rest of her family being happy together. At length she drove off to school in her black Maxima sedan, wishing it were purple and sighing musically.

When she pulled into the parking lot of Forks High School, she noticed a run-down old truck and a liquid silver Volvo. She was certain these cars held some deep significance, though she wasn't sure why. She wished her car was that shiny. No one else in Forks deserved a car like that.

It seemed there was a new student today, as everyone's thoughts were focused on that. Not only a new student, but a new student who was shinier than Annie; in the excitement they seemed to have forgotten about her. Now they were thinking about how wonderfully attractive _Bella_ was, how jealous they were of _her_ , with her dull, ordinary chestnut rivers of hair cascading down her back like train tracks... it was unbearable. Annie wasn't going to tolerate this iniquity. She effortlessly made her way through the jostling, blindingly noisy crowd like a fish through water as she tried to locate this mysterious Bella Swan. When she finally did, she had to rely on eyesight alone: Bella was unreadable.

Not that there was anything special about that. Not everyone could put up a thought screen, but it was easily taken down. Bella was only P5 or so, whereas Annie was on the high end, maybe 12 or more. She didn't know how she knew about the P-scale, only that she did. Bella cried out in chagrin as the noise flooded back into her head, but it was brief, for Annie quickly threw her out the window into the slushy snow using her "other hands". A high, trilling windchime laugh escaped Annie's small lilac mouth.

"That was really cool," said Lauren, her silver fish eyes dancing a jig. "I never liked her anyway."

"Yeah, thanks, Annie," said Jessica. "She smelled like laundry detergent. It was really annoying."

Annie tripped over some of the broken glass, and her books spilled on the floor. Inwardly she cursed her clumsiness, but outwardly she said nothing: she was the only Flowerbeam who knew anything of politeness. Lauren, Jessica and Angela clustered around to pick up her things and ask if she was all right, to which she replied that yes, of course she was all right, wasn't she always? Lauren and Jessica had once been jealous of Annie's looks and popularity, but she'd tired of listening to them think about nothing but that, so she'd wiped their original personalities and replaced them with ones she liked better.

The glass shards made rainbows in the silvery beams that tiptoed in through the shattered, riven orifice. No one noticed the limpid, sparkling debris, as they were too busy thinking about how splendidly marvelous Annie was or how jealous they were of her for some petty reason. The nebulous firmament directed an iron-gray glower at what lay beneath him. To Annie it seemed like a personal insult, like the sky had some ancient grudge against her. She couldn't imagine what she'd done to deserve this. She wished she'd never moved to Forks — she'd lived here since she was only one year old, but she still remembered the golden glow in the turquoise heavens above Spoons, Florida, the emerald palm trees swaying gently in the velvet breeze, the warm white sand that glittered like crystal, the gleaming topaz water; such a contrast to the drab, dreary weather in Forks that only occasionally let in amber slices of sunlight, as if it had rapid cycling bipolar and was having brief manic episodes before sinking back into long depressive stretches. Maybe someday she'd learn to control the weather, to make it illuminate the dark recess of her empty soul.

In the meantime she contented herself with fantasies of defenestrating half the students, locking the other half in the gym and setting it on fire, and permanently planting horrifying images in the minds of the third half that they'd always see even after they died and their spirits went to Vorlonia or wherever. Maybe then they'd understand how she suffered when they thought of her the way they did. She could hardly stand to be reminded of how painfully exquisite she was, or of the outfits she wanted to wear but didn't dare — her glowing, scintillating amethyst bikini with the delicate lace around the edges; her dress composed entirely of rainbow ribbons that showcased her figure and perpetually looked as if it were about to fall off; her ocean-blue skinny jeans with the diamond zipper; her emerald green tank top with intricate golden flowers running all through it in breathtaking detail...


	2. Chapter 2

This one got kind of goofy. I couldn't make myself keep doing it straight.

* * *

She ran to biology class like a gazelle, thus shaking away her black train of thought. She somehow managed to be atrociously late, which upset the teacher. He yelled at her in a burlap voice. However, after informing him that she couldn't help it due to having Asperger syndrome, he relented and said it wouldn't go on her record and he understood how hard it was. She didn't actually have Asperger's. The teacher's name was Mr. Banner; he was seven feet tall and covered in long caramel fur, and he wore a scarlet dress that reached the floor yet left little to the imagination. He was a Wookiee. He wasn't even human, yet he still lusted after her. She tried to block out his disgusting fantasies, but she couldn't because anyone above roughly P9 doesn't have that kind of control.

It didn't matter that there were only fifteen minutes of class left, as she'd already done this lab — over a decade ago, in fact. The only problem was yet another attention-getting new student, whose name was Edward Cullen. Such an ordinary name attached to such an extraordinary person. His skin was even more perfectly pale than Annie's, and he was so incredibly attractive that all the girls thought of nothing but him and all the boys thought of nothing but their jealousy; he was like Annie in reverse. He, too, was subjected to these thoughts, but he was lower down on the scale so he had partially blocked them out. Only partially, since he wasn't properly trained, but he still hadn't noticed that Annie was a... _t-word_. She couldn't take any chances, though.

Shortly before all this was going on, Jasper had noticed that Bella was staining the snow with delicious crimson moisture, and he'd been unable to resist. Edward was busy moping about this, not only because he was even more obsessed with her than everyone else had been, but because he wished he'd done the deed himself instead of only experiencing it vicariously. Meanwhile, in the bathroom across the hall, Lyta Alexander was mind-controlling random people into drinking out of the toilets. She was really bored and didn't have anything better to do, since she'd somehow drifted away from her home universe. Also, the toilets were really filthy. Then Buffy showed up and staked her. She wasn't a vampire, of course, but that'll kill anyone, even people who've been touched by Orlons. Nylons? Vorlons? Whatever. After that, Buffy got Force-choked to death by Darth Vader and Vader got assimilated by the Borg, and nobody cared about any of it.

Earlier in the class, Edward had tried to pick the answer to a question out of Mr. Banner's head. However, he hadn't heard the actual question, so it was only after he spoke that he realized his answer of "expensive stuffed tiger on eBay" was completely irrelevant. He was moping about this, too. He was used to completely coherent thoughts that told him exactly what he needed to know, but something odd had happened...

How tediously... something. Not tediously average, because only mundanes could be thus, but still tedious. Semantic satiation is so much fun. By the end of the class Annie had concluded that Edward was not working for the Ersatz Corps, the Physics Police, or any such dreadful shadowy copycat organization, so he wasn't a _serious_ threat. Even so, he was stealing the attention that should rightfully be hers. If things kept on like this she'd get lonely and turn into one of those loser nerds who sat by themselves at lunch and wrote bad fanfiction about infinitesimals fighting irrational numbers with lightsabers. She should have been able to go to her parents for company, but they cared nothing for her. Her mother was jealous of her beauty, having faded herself in middle age, so she did unspeakable things in retaliation; her father, meanwhile, preferred her looks to those of his own wife, so he did similarly unspeakable things to satisfy himself. Annie had searched the pasts of her peers and found that none of them had borne such burdens. They had no right to tread on her like the Gadsden snake.

After class let out, Annie made Edward go into the aforementioned bathroom so no one would see what she was about to do. Then, her azure and emerald orbs glowing fiercely, she made his head explode, which finished him off well enough; technically you were supposed to tear them into pieces and set the result on fire, but even the sparkly ones ceased to function when given the _Scanners_ treatment. What was left fell to the floor, joining Lyta and Buffy in death and adding glittering diaphanous fluid to the deep scarlet that already coated the tiles. It was the boys' bathroom. It was out of order, so no one would notice the dead bodies.

Then she joined Jessica, Lauren and Angela for lunch. Annie's lunch consisted of slender sticks of _Solanum tuberosum_ cooked at 400 degrees Fahrenheit in 100% pure liquid plant triglycerides until they were a perfect golden butterscotch, then sprinkled with small white cubical crystals of sodium chloride and coated with velvety vermillion sauce made from _Solanum lycopersicum_ fruit and flavored with sweet, short-chain, soluble carbohydrates. The other girls were eating French fries with ketchup. They had simple, shallow tastes.

During their conversation about the myriad intellectual merits of using heated tools and other commercial products to optimize the performance of the strands of dead keratin cells that formed a thick growth on their heads, Annie was doing homework for eight different classes at once. There were only four periods in the day, but she was taking extra classes because four was just too easy and she'd been bored with it. However, to maintain her straight A's, she had to do homework all the time, if not more. Of course, she was more than capable of multitasking, as was necessary to have a vibrant, pulsating social life and avoid becoming one of those loner freaks. Periodically she reminded the other girls of all the projects they had due in some number of weeks that she'd already finished.

While all this was going on, Jennifer Ford and her boyfriend Mike Newton walked up to Annie's table, their thoughts full of stygian charcoal. In Mike's case, the stygian charcoal was hiding the golden amber slime of inevitable lust.

"Hey, baby, does the carpet match the drapes?" said Mike's voice to Annie.  
"I don't see why that's any of your business," she retorted acidly. How dare Mike have so little respect for her privacy?  
"Shut up, Mike," said Jennifer, her basic tones neutralizing Annie's acid. Her thoughts were chagrined. To distract themselves they started counting sheep. They were topaz sheep, shimmering in the mental sun like a thousand rabid rainbows. Jennifer herself was unaware of this.  
"Aw, I was just asking." Mike's thoughts grew tentacles and climbed up onto his hair out of boredom.  
"How much of a ditz do you think I am?!" Jennifer was thoroughly angry with Mike now, completely failing to notice that her thoughts had started a rainbow sheep farm and were now sitting in the middle of the sparkling emerald field playing poker using cow pies for poker chips. "Of course you weren't just asking. You were trying to get her to take her pants off. You're _mine_ , don't you remember?" One of Jennifer's thoughts defected from the sheep farm as a conscientious objector and wandered over to Mike's hair to do obscene things to the tentacled thought-form that had already placed itself there.  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Mike was oblivious to the thoughts in his hair; generic music ran over and over through his head like a broken record that had overdosed on speed before running a cross-country marathon.  
"Let's _go_." Jennifer yanked Mike's arm, dragging him in the direction of her preferred table — one of the loser tables. A brightly shining, iridescent thought-sheep stood on her fishily blond head making sheep noises. She didn't seem to notice.


	3. Chapter 3

Yes, I know what "telekinesis" means...

I hope the end isn't too crazy. I wasn't in the mood to keep going with the purple Mary Sue stuff. (I said roughly the same thing about the second chapter, but this one is more so.)

* * *

It was the second day of school, the second rotational period of the fiery topaz orb that circled the cerulean earth in its joyous dance, unseen behind livid clouds that cast a funereal pall over the stygian, handkerchief-sized town of Forks. The incandescent liquid topaz had barely risen above the grim horizon, barely commenced to illuminate the dreary vapors that hung in the sky as if from a gallows, when Annie was rudely ordered out of her bed, a bed that always seemed to have negative enthalpy no matter how much thermal energy it possessed.

It was five o'clock sharp in the morning.

Her father loomed over her like a gnarled, overgrown sequoia, leering down at her with his eyes the color of wet cardboard, his hair that was absent on top of his moist, shiny head but fell to his shoulders in a scraggly, straw-colored mess like moldy steel wool, his goatee that was just like his hair except for being a goatee, and his mouth that contained ragged, coffee-stained teeth and breath like a cat box that had not been cleaned in twenty thousand years. His eyes seemed shrunken behind filthy cat-eye glasses with frames the color of Pepto-Bismol. His hairy, linty, rug-like chest was visible because he was wearing only pajama bottoms, which were supposed to be a sickening shade of yellow-green but hadn't been washed in six months and nine days, so they were actually an even more sickening shade of grayish brown; and they were full of ragged holes and runs. His thoughts had the quality of the dingy, fetid slime that collected underneath the bottom of the oven and emitted strangely seductive yet sickly sweet laughter on the occasions that Annie was forced to clean it out as punishment for some imagined wrongdoing. His name was John; it seemed to fit him.

"Get out of bed _or else_ , Aniridia!" he roared in a voice like mildewed broken windows. She knew what "or else" meant, and it was dreadful, but she was brave, so she lay there in silence and showed no weakness on her face. She even bit back her objection to the use of her full given name, which she hated.

So he took hold of her and dragged her from her comfortless refuge with his hands like scruffy, malicious pillows, and his long, ragged nails dug into her like sneering, bloodthirsty forks, and still she was as stoic as a shaved rock. It was only when she saw that he was about to strip off her thin nightshirt and inflict a far greater indignity on her that she knew she had to take action. She used her telekinesis to make him see an unspeakably terrifying image that involved hundreds of tentacles and an ocean full of blood and slime, and she ensured that he would see it for the rest of the day. He was no longer an obstacle, so she went back to bed, but she could no longer sleep.

As she lay there like a moist, drenched washcloth, she thought of the many times in the past when she _had_ been successfully punished, or even tormented for the sake of torment; her misdeeds were an excuse that was sometimes left off altogether. These somber occasions twisted into dark, thorny snarls like possessed roses that would not bloom, mocking her, cutting her soul so that it bled astral tears. Though she had more recently learned to defend herself and give her parents what they surely deserved, the injustices they had inflicted on her would stay with her as long as she remained on this blue-green orb so like her own. She was sliced up like twenty onions. She was riddled through like Swiss cheese, had always been, and would always be.

When she did finally rise, she decided that on this day she would wear what she pleased and ignore what anyone else thought of it. She put on her amethyst bikini with the silver straps like condensed moonlight, as well as a pair of golden fishnets that shone like the sun outside her window. And what a glorious sun it was! Alabaster filaments snaked their way in on minuscule feline feet, bathing the room in a yellow-white glow like heaven itself. The normally lint-gray clouds were lit cotton white, the sky was pale sapphire, and the trees were intricate emeralds. Annie almost longed to be tossed into that splendor, but she knew she would not fly.

Her mother, whose name was Kleenex, had sheer outrage written on her face when she saw Annie's outfit. She herself was wearing a white lacy bra and matching underwear; the lace was pale strawberry pink. Her only other garments were a pair of fetid greenish socks, an ostentatiously scintillating hair clip that adorned graying coppery hair, extensive makeup that made her face even uglier than it would normally have been, and a spray-on tan that did little to hide her decaying figure. Kleenex tried too hard to make herself attractive — far, far too hard.

Kleenex tried to keep Annie from going to school in that outfit. Annie made her see the tentacles, too.

Once again she drove to school in the black sedan, and once again she wished she had something more attractive to drive. When she reached the parking lot, she saw that Tyler Crowley's van had grown wings and was flying in a figure eight above the parking lot. The wings were sparsely feathered, as if molting; the feathers were in all different pastel colors, and the skin underneath them was black and seemed to radiate darkness. A collection of eyeballs and mouths floated around the van; the eyeballs had orange-purple sclerae and silver-purple irises, and the mouths had chapped topaz lips and liquid topaz teeth; and both laughed madly, like wind chimes on acid. Annie paid it no heed, and neither did anyone else.

Today the school was entirely purple. The windows were blocked by shimmering purple curtains; the bricks were stained an extremely purple shade of purple; and the purple smelled like radioactive rainbows that had been consorting with rabbits. Nobody cared. Everyone was too busy texting their cell phones to notice that their cell phones were completely fashioned out of the purest purple filaments of the universe's dark soul repository and that the bananas were written in outdated javascript. Everyone was purple. Purple itself was purple. Purple was located in the sixth quadrant of the imaginary plane, and it had a complex solid angle. Purple lasted an infinitesimal number of seconds.

What bananas? Yes, we have no bananas! Haven't you noticed we have no bananas?!

The cell phones all turned into bananas, and then they turned back into cell phones. The cell phones were furry. They looked sort of like little purple rabbits, except that they were shaped like cell phones.

When Annie entered the school, she was rudely accosted by Mike Newton, who was not purple. "Hi, Annie!" he yelled in a voice like colorless Kleenex. "I'm not purple! Are you purple?"  
"How rude of you to question me about my purpleness. None of the purple is any of your business, because they passed a law against purple. There is no such thing as purple. Purple is pseudoscience."  
"No, I broke up with Jennifer, so it's okay."  
Jennifer Ford appeared on the ceiling. She was a sunflower. She gave a long speech about salt shakers. She was very beige.  
"I'm not beige either," said Mike.  
"Who asked you?" said Jennifer. "No one cares if you're beige or not."  
"I am a Kleenex box."  
"No, you're not. You are only the contents of the box. Few can aspire to such greatness as you have claimed. Be gone, foul pretender!"  
"I am a line of dialogue."  
All three exclaimed: "Who said that?" For the voice was colorless, and it was not a voice, yet it was heard by all.

There was no answer.

Then a man with shining yellow-brown hair and blinding green eyes appeared before the crowd in a deafeningly pink dress spun from the light of Io's moon, and he said: "I am Edward Cullen. I am a plot hole. I have been sent to minister to you on behalf of the god of dehumidifiers. He is very angry with all of you because you do not worship him. If you do not worship him at once, he will make the air very dry. Heed my warning and despair, lowly, imperfect humans."

As suddenly as he had appeared, he vanished, and he was replaced by a woman with dark brown hair, transparent skin, and eyes like rusted pennies. She was clad in overalls made from seventeen thousand enslaved keyboards. She said: "I am Bella Swan. I am a continuity error, and I was sent by the god of continuity errors because she was bored. I do not exist. You do not exist. Studies must be done to prove that you exist, or you do not exist. You cannot prove a negative, so no amount of Zener cards will prove it. Beware sensory leakage. I am not Bella Swan. I am the author. I am extremely bored, and I am using repetitive sentence structures. Heed me at your own peril." And she vanished, too.

The school was transformed into the surface of the moon, except that it was not the moon at all: it was an illusory moon base set up for the purposes of confirming wild conspiracy theories. The craters were made from the souls of fallen demons, and the demons were made from the craters of fallen souls, and the souls were made from bananas. The bananas were part of an ancient conspiracy with the giant telepathic chickens. Nobody cared. Nobody was part of the conspiracy, too. Nobody was orange. Nobody was also purple. Everybody was green. Green was purple and purple was green, and pleen was gurple and furple was steen, and gene was urple and clean was murple and feen was nurpling beans. The beans were made from mice, and the mice were made from beans. The beans were made from conspiracy theories. The conspiracy theories fueled the light bulbs that were so obviously used to light the set.

Nobody cared about that, either. Nobody was a very caring person. Nobody saw his own shadow, and she hid under the Kleenex box with Mike Newton. It was a red box. It was more impossibly red than any red anyone had ever conceived of before. It was inconceivably red. Nobody could see how red it was. Nobody was a very special person.

There was a cat. It was an ordinary orange cat, or so it seemed, and it held Annie's attention. As she watched, its head grew a head, and its eyes grew eyes, and out of its mouth came a steady procession of heads, and as this spectacle continued, she felt a sense of peace enfold her like the alien fur cloak around Shepherd Blaine. Its tail grew a tail, and that tail grew a tail, and the tails grew many eyes and mouths and oh how _sublime_ it all was; it was the epitome of everything that had ever been, everything that was, and everything that would ever be; it was the cat of cats. It glowed more and more brightly, and it bathed the increasingly changeable surroundings in a soft orange light. To Annie, there was nothing but the cat and the orange, for nothing else mattered, nothing else ever would matter again.

She failed to notice Susan Ivanova sneaking up behind her, and she was barely conscious of being thrown out the window.

No one else saw the cat. It was not a cat at all. It was a dehumidifier.

Then Ivanova herself was thrown out of the window by someone she did not see, someone wearing a cloak of darkness who was sworn to rid this accursed tale of all elements that rightly belonged in other stories. That person also did not exist. No one existed; no one ever had existed, or ever would.

There were no windows, either.

The threads of the universe were unraveled by the capricious hand of fate, and they spun apart, forgetting their once-shared purpose, never to meet again.

And then there was nothing.


End file.
